


or for as much

by panthalassa



Category: Ocean's (Movies), Ocean's 8, Ocean's Eight
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, HAROLD THEY'RE LESBIANS, Heist Wives, How They Met, but for real Lou is canon queer in this movie right?, god bless whoever created the heist wives tag, my tags keep going out of order, people are gay stephen, think of it as a fluff angst sandwich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 01:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15038171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panthalassa/pseuds/panthalassa
Summary: My take on a fix-it for the movie (particularly the beach scene), plus a little back story.——Lou Miller and Debbie Ocean find each other.And lose each other.And find each other again.





	1. The First Ocean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not written anything in a long time but I watched this movie and this just sort of... erupted out of my joy-filled queer heart?

My darling, the wind falls in like stones  
from the white hearted water and when we touch  
we enter touch entirely. No one’s alone.  
Men kill for this, or for as much.

\- Anne Sexton

 

Deborah Ocean finds Lou Miller by the water.

It’s late October and an angry sea claws at the New Jersey sand. Waves ripple beneath the boardwalk as Deb traces her steps within the outline of the wood. Carefully, heel to toe. Danny always taught her never to step on the cracks.

They weren’t a superstitious family. But they were always a balancing act. Only ever a few metres above dark water.

As the strip of casinos peels away from her peripheral vision, Deb shakes her ears clear of the sea and regards the tall woman before her; a collection of angles reclined against the railings. Cigarette dangling from her fingers almost as an afterthought. Blonde hair strewn by the growing breeze.

Deb leans on the cold metal a few feet away and looks out over the water, where the sun is stuttering at the horizon, surrendering its final rays of daylight.

The blonde woman takes an unhurried drag, smoke caught by the wind and hurled out to sea. Deb imagines it travelling over the angry, foaming water.

A prickling at her skin tells her that she is being watched.

She keeps her features impassive, staring down the guttering sun. Curiosity always gets the better of them in the end. If she’s chosen correctly.

After a few more furtive glances, the woman draws in a breath, as though acknowledging she has lost their silent tug of war.

“Not smoking?” A velvet-clad arm gestures what remains of the cigarette in Deb’s direction. She’s spent most of her life around eclectic people, in even more eclectic places, but she’s not sure she’s ever seen anyone dress like this outside of a Victorian painting.

Deb is fascinated. But oh she can’t be fascinated. Not yet.

“That’s usually the only reason you find people out here in this weather.”

Australian. The accent she couldn’t place at first suddenly comes into focus. And that voice; warm and gravelly and wry.

This could be fun.

“Oh no… thank you! I just needed some air.” Her tone of reply is chosen carefully. Light, coquettish, a little clueless.

The blonde just nods, but she’s turning towards Deb now, and a sleeve shifts to reveal a collection of bracelets that complement (or clash with) the rings adorning almost every finger. An unseasonably unbuttoned shirt collar parts further to hint at shadows that Deb dearly wants to follow.

She looks like no one Deb’s ever seen. And Deb dearly loves a puzzle.

“It’s so warm in there,” she continues in her best just-washed-in-from-the-Hamptons get up, fanning away a not entirely dishonest flush in her cheeks.

“Curiosity, Deb,” she hears Danny say. “It’ll get you in trouble.”

Not that he’s in a position to comment, from the jail cell she hasn’t yet forgiven him for. He’s the reason she’s striking out on her own, and striking out entirely more often than not. Shoplifting is no kind of satisfaction. Deb’s used to being a double act, and she learned from the best. Now perhaps the second best, all things considered.

“Well, it used to be warm  _and_  smoky,” the blonde says wryly.

“Not feeling the welcoming embrace of the New Jersey weather?” Deb smiles, and it’s almost a Deb smile, not a whoever-this-faux-deubtante-is smile.

The side of the woman’s mouth draws up ever so slightly, as she takes a final drag of her cigarette.

“Weather. Laws. They’re all out to get me.” She plunges the now finished cigarette into an ashtray and moves to leave.

Deb’s never been good at pretending to be a mark, but the fact that her chosen target has seen through this bodes well, so she takes a quick breath and decides to go for gold.

Deb’s always loved gold.

——

“You have great hands.”

Lou pauses to regard her companion suspiciously. There are bizarre conversational non sequiturs and then… there’s this.

But no one organises a sting for a minor level blackjack grifter in Atlantic City.

Plus, she’s been careful. She’s so careful when she strays out of her comfort zone. Always been more of a back room operator, too noticeable to play front and centre, she makes calculated, low stakes moves when she’s out in the open.

Lou’s eyes narrow as she returns to the railing, where the woman in the tight black evening gown and laughably spindly heels is now looking out over the darkening water as though she hasn’t just paid a total stranger an odd compliment.

“I saw you working the tables earlier,” she tells the ocean, twisting her chestnut hair together and drawing it over her left shoulder, leaving her long neck exposed in the soft light of the boardwalk.

Lou comes closer, their elbows brushing.

“What do you want?” she asks in a low voice.

The woman looks at her properly, for the first time. Where before Lou thought she had detected a cheap con artist, there was a depth to the steady gaze that held Lou’s own fearlessly.

“A friend. Maybe more.”

She swears she can feel the current beneath her. Pulling, incessantly. Her footing lost.

The woman extends a hand, all formal politeness. Lou accepts it, cautiously.

“Deborah Ocean. I think I might have a job for you.”

“Lou Sea. Birthday; not yesterday.”

Deb wrinkles her nose. “Lucy? Really?“

“Oh, and you’re telling me your name is actually Ocean?”

Lou has a hand on her hip now. She can’t tell if this is still playful or if she’s being played. It makes her tetchy.

Deb laughs, inclining her head slightly, giving Lou a slow once over. It sends a warmth pooling at the base of Lou’s spine that she dearly wishes she had any control over.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Deb asks. It's not really a question.

Curiosity has always gotten Lou into trouble…

——

Deb learns that Lou’s languid sprawl is even more pronounced when applied to furniture. She takes up most of their small corner booth, and a good deal of Deb’s personal space. Those harsh angles belie soft skin and warm bones, which drape along the back of Deb's seat and press up against her thigh.

Lou learns that Deb means business.

“I have a proposal for you.”

Lou regards the brunette from beneath her fringe, and makes a few idle stabs at the ice in her glass. They’re not done dancing around each other yet.

“Oh honey, I don’t get out of bed for less than 40 carats.”

“How many does it take to get you into bed?”

Lou’s whiskey catches in her throat.

Deb’s lips curl around the rim of her glass in amusement, even as she looks straight ahead, unruffled.

——

“Why can’t you walk in these things anyway?” Lou huffs, fighting with the lock on her motel room door as Deb leans up against her, four drinks down, barely worn shoes dangling idly from her outstretched fingers.

“They’re not mine,” a voice rumbles into Lou’s neck.

A naive person would assume they were borrowed. A smart person would call the police. Lou simply feels a heady swell of affection.

As the quiet of a world that now contains only them settles in, Lou realises perhaps for the first time that she has no idea what to do next. She has brought an exotic creature home with no idea whether to care for it or sit up all night with a shotgun.

Shedding her shoes, she edges towards the bathroom.

“You know,” Deb addresses the ceiling, as she flops back on Lou’s bed “I don’t come home with just anyone.”

Her eyes meet Lou’s through the open door.

“Don’t you indeed?” Lou raises an eyebrow from the sink, as she fidgets with taking off her rings.

She feels at sea, steadying herself against the cold porcelain. Frowning at the mirror, she can’t pinpoint why she’s so thrown. This is hardly the first time she’s brought someone back to her bed on the basis of a few hours acquaintance.

Yet what lies on the other side of the door remains a mystery that she can feel coiling in the pit of her stomach.

The mystery is asleep by the time Lou returns.

——

Morning elbows its way through her inadequate curtains, and Lou can feel every single vertebra as she unfurls herself from the room’s tiny armchair.

Her bed is empty, and the tap is running in the bathroom.

Lou pulls herself up onto the sideboard and scrubs her face with her hands. Her back is killing her and she didn’t even get laid. What a con.

At the click of the lock she looks up from the pyramid of her fingers, elbows resting wearily on her knees, shirtsleeves having long abandoned their posts.

“I used your toothbrush,” Deb beams, confident and fresh faced as she flicks the light switch off.

'What the fuck am I doing?' Lou wonders to herself.

Alighting on the bed, her guest faces her, straight backed, one leg crossed over the other as though preparing to make the opening gambit in a high stakes business negotiation.

Maybe, Lou figures, that’s what she’s doing.

“What exactly is it that you want?” Lou asks, straightening. Not her strongest opener, but then everything about this woman seems to throw her slightly off centre. Someone who knows the game, but also holds back, transforming chameleon-like beneath Lou's hands.

“Lou.” Deb turns the sound over in her mouth, as though it is a new and interesting flavour.

Lou stares.

Deb smiles, and her face opens up momentarily into something more honest as she rises from the bed.

“I’m looking for a partner. I’ve got a job in mind.”

A beat.

“A bank! It’ll be fun,” she teases.

Her smile is the kind that Lou knows she should run from. She doesn't work jobs like that.

Instead, she lowers herself onto the questionable carpet and takes a step closer. And another. There aren’t really any more left to take.

Deb looks back at her patiently. Unflinching. Unfairly rosy in the morning light.

“I don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure,” Lou tries, realising she has no additional height to leverage as she faces down brown eyes that match her determination.

Warm breath ghosts across the skin of her lips, and Lou knows she's either going to work or going to jail.

Deb’s eyes flicker down to her target before she moves in closer.

“That’s a pity,” her lips brush against Lou’s. “I look great in gold.”

Lou doesn’t feel like she has any choice in the matter. The current is pulling her towards Deb and she couldn’t stop it if she tried.

——

They eye each other hungrily over breakfast, barely paying attention to the food on their plates.

For reasons Lou cannot fathom, Deb seems to enjoy mixing all manner of flavours together; reaching over to scoop up some of Lou’s eggs with her pancake.

“Are you two sisters?” the waitress asks, topping off their coffees.

There is wickedness in Lou’s eyes as she smiles around her coffee spoon.

Deb runs a hand up the inside of her thigh beneath the formica tabletop.

“Oh yeah, real close family,” she deadpans, squeezing as she meets Lou’s gaze with a now familiar smile.

“It’s just so nice to see these days,” the waitress potters off.

Lou chokes down her laughter, while Deb wields her forkful of food in her direction.

“You have to try this. Close your eyes.”

Lou only takes orders on the job. Parting her lips slightly, she catches Deb's eye only to realise she’s picked a battle she cannot possibly win.

“You’ll like it.”

As soon as her eyes flicker shut with an exaggerated roll, the fork clatters onto the plate as Deb’s tongue slips into her mouth.

——

They never put a name on it. They simply come as a unit. The two of them against the world. One job becomes two and three and five, and when the good jobs dry up, the question of their parting doesn’t arise.

And it all works and it all makes sense, and they’re not the richest but it’s somehow the best, least complicated thing Lou has ever had… until it isn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry it gets happy, please don't run away! Though... there's a bit of angst first. Sorry.


	2. The Bay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire fic is designed to be canon compliant, because obviously the problem with this movie is some overzealous editing and not just outright straight cluelessness!
> 
> If anyone wants to fix the movie dialogue, please hit me up. I tried to remember it but was also too busy writing this scene in my head at the time… O_o

Lou finds Deb looking out over the bay; the water working and reworking the small beach, uncovering treasure and burying secrets twice a day.

Having built herself up into nearly 6 feet of high heeled towering fury, she immediately feels dwarfed by the sky and the water and the vastness of this conversation that’s been quietly biding its time in the depths for years.

Now that it’s crawled out onto land, she’s the one who feels out of place - staring down this mutable, tentacled thing.

Her ankle gives an uncertain wobble as her shoes meet the sand. Lou is built for battle on firmer ground, within four walls. And then a quick exit. But when it comes to Deb, she’s never been the one doing the leaving.

And she will not cry, for fuck sake. She won’t.

——

She meets with the wall of Deb that she expected. One that’s already made its mind up. Five years of running the scenario, and this had been there from the very beginning. Of course. Of course it had.

This wasn’t the cherry - the Toussaint was.

Cupid’s Gambit. Lou had seen Deb’s list. The list that was not new. She had felt a prickle down the back of her neck when her partner reappeared out of nowhere, offering a job too delicious to be true.

Clutching the silk sleeves of her jacket, Lou stands firm, unsure whether it hurts more that Deb didn’t tell her or that Deb didn’t seem to care.

There are rules though. Deb likes to bend them, but she knows why they exist. Trust.

“You don’t run a job in a job,” Lou sounds tight-lipped. Schoolmarmish.

“He sent me to jail,” Deb’s tone is measured. And deadly. It opens up a chasm between them so vast that Lou takes a step back. “You have no. idea. what that’s like.”

No idea. None.

Lou’s eyes well with the unfairness of it.

“Well, he’s going to put you back there.”

He’s going to take you from me again.

“No,” says Deb evenly. “He’s not.”

Her certainty, her disdain is infuriating.

Lou feels like a petulant child, but here it comes.

“Fuck. You. Deb. Do you think it’s easy to just carry on out here as though you never existed? To not even get to say goodbye? As though we were noth-”

Her voice cracks and Lou snaps her mouth shut to trap what might be left of her dignity inside, sinking abruptly onto the nearest rock.

She’s not giving Deb this level of control. Not now. Not when she wants to push her into the water and pull her close at the same time.

As though Lou had never lain awake wondering how it felt to be pinned in place by iron bars. As though the message she’d received via Reuben not to get in touch, to stay clear of the entire case and keep herself clean (as if Deb had ever given her the choice) hadn’t knocked the breath out of her.

——

Deb turns away to cool off. To tamp down the anger rising in her throat.

Five years. No one can possibly understand that. Not even Lou. They’ve always understood each other implicitly and _he_ took that away.

But Deb took it away first, and that knowledge sits heavy on her chest. In the early morning when her body awakes, expecting harsh lights and slamming doors, and sometimes when she catches Lou looking at her and no one else is around. Not the light flirtation of their common parlance, but a lean, hungry look. One which searches her for something that’s no longer there.

How they can still seem so perfectly in step when they are so ludicrously at odds is a quiet marvel to Deb. But that’s the work. It always has been. Run the job, deal with the messy feelings later.

But the messy feelings have always been fun with Lou.

“There are seven of us in this, you know,” Lou scratches at the sand with her toe.

She looks up.

“I thought you’d sorted yourself out with your little button trophy moment.”

“Yeah, that’s the going exchange rate these days. A button for half a decade behind bars. 25 years and you can take the whole shirt!”

Lou’s gaze is cold. Deb throws up her hands in exasperation, more at herself than anything else.

Why don’t they fit together anymore?

She’d expected new cellphones, fresh bland nobody celebrities in every paper, possibly the radical invention of a mascara that didn’t clump.

Instead she emerged into a world where she’s legally allowed to marry Lou and they’ve never felt further apart.

Lou’s cavernous warehouse is designed to accommodate the lazy swindling of New York’s young, drunk and medium-rich, not for the two of them to crowd together at a shitty motel kitchen table, plotting elegant jobs over takeout and beneath a faintly buzzing lamp, Deb’s fingers tingling over blueprints with pleasure.

Now they have a fucking _Friends_ knock off sofa and iPads.

“This just… what is this? Why don’t we work anymore?” She addresses the bay and the breeze and no one in particular. Maybe herself.

She jumps at the sound of a strangled sob behind her.

——

Lou has never cried like this in front of Deb, not in all their years together.

Behind her, she can feel Deb’s resolve crack, startled. After a hesitant pause, an uncertain hand materialises on her shoulder.

Lou is almost frightened of herself at this stage. She’s pried open some terrifying prison inside and now there’s no containing any of it. The monster claws its way up her throat. Her stomach heaves with grief.

“Lou,” Deb sinks to her knees before her, and tries to take her hands.

But Lou has nothing to offer.

“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t,” she hears herself saying.

She can feel Deb’s strong arms prying hers away from her face, Deb’s gentle fingers on her cheeks. The world is nothing but mist and the suddenly magnified flicker of her eyelashes.

Deb’s lips press against the cold damp of her cheek. Her eyelid. Her forehead. Her mouth.

She’d forgotten, actually forgotten what it felt like to be kissed by Deb.

Or perhaps she’s kissing an entirely new Deb, and there is nothing to remember.

“I’m sorry,” Deb’s mouth meets hers again and again. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

Lou presses her forehead into Deb’s as they both regain their breath.

“I don’t know you,” she rasps, the realisation quietly striking her.

Deb looks frightened for the first time. She brushes her hands over Lou’s face, thumbs wiping fresh tears from her cheeks.

“You know me,” she says softly, coaxing, and just the tiniest bit unsure.

Lou rises, shaking her head and freeing herself from Deb’s grip.

She draws deep lungfuls of cold, salt air, steadying her voice.

“I don’t. That person walked out a long time ago and she didn’t come back.”

Behind her, Deb makes no move to get up, weathering out the storm of her anger. The thought that they still know these familiar paths around each other wounds Lou even further.

“Why did you come here? Did you think we would just fall back into bed again? Job well done, time to fuck my partner, that’s how I always celebrate?”

Deb looks ashen.

“That’s not-“

“Jesus,” Lou is pacing now.

“You always knew what you wanted, Deb. And how to get it. But once you met him-“

She stops to fumble in her pockets and her fingers close around her lighter. She draws it out and considers it, before dropping it at Deb’s feet.

She can see that one hit close to home. Deb sits back on her heels with the force of it.

The door of the warehouse slams loudly, and Lou looks up to see a head of perfectly coiffed blonde hair approaching.

“You’re not the only one in this. It can’t just be about your revenge.”

——

Deb draws her knees up to her chin, as she listens to the crunch of Lou’s shoes growing distant on the gravel, and Tammy padding across the sand towards her in concern.

But she only feels silence inside. Miles and miles of it.

——

The warehouse is quiet that night. The static of their earlier argument crackles heavy in the air, its strange metallic taste warding off company.

Lou is at the table, sorting through paperwork in the haloed half light of an inadequate lamp, when Deb blows in the door with the spring breeze and carefully crosses the wooden floor. Not stepping on the cracks.

She places the lighter gently on the table.

Lou continues to flip through her stack of envelopes, even as her eyes slide over it, apparently impervious.

The sink welcomes Deb’s retreat as she pours herself a glass of water, trying not to breathe. The faucet loudly pummels the drain beneath, echoing around the space like a growing riot.

She views Lou through the bottom of her emptying glass; shimmering before her like a water sprite. There, then gone, and back again.

The water drains. Lou’s hand rests gently over the lighter. Relief thuds in Deb’s ears like the sea.

Hours pass. Minutes.

Ghosting towards the table, she rests her arms lightly across Lou’s collarbone.

When she was little, she used to cage butterflies in her hands like this. Curious visitors who didn’t want to stay. Deb doesn’t like trapping things anymore.

Before… before she would have cheekily snuck a hand down the open collar of Lou’s shirt. But before was another universe.

She buries her face in her partner’s neck, opening her mouth against the warm skin there.

“I paid for that, you know. Actual cash,” she hums.

Lou’s smile grazes her forehead. She flicks the lighter open. And shut. And open. The flame burns steady, barely guttering in the room’s draft.

Deb reaches down to smooth along the bumps and grooves of Lou’s portable jewellery collection. Some are familiar, some new.

She has always loved Lou’s hands, from the first moment she told her so. She tells her again.

Lou tells her to fuck off, but clasps her fingers tight.

“I don’t know who we are anymore,” Deb confesses to the empty air.

“We can find out,” Lou’s voice rumbles into her chest, fills up her lungs again.

She is pressing their fingertips together now. One by one, print by print. Re-learning.

“But I need you to know what you want.”

Deb rests her cheek against Lou’s, clasping her arms even tighter around her partner.

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I’m so sorry, this got rougher than I expected. They’re not broken, I’ll fix them! I legit had to write a bit of the ending to soothe my own anxiety, so it definitely exists. Cross my heart.


	3. The Last Ocean

Deb finds Lou by the low, rippling waters of the exhibit pool.

Camera spots mean they have only a moment to exchange a quick look, from too far away.

“It’s going well I trust you You haven’t done the worst part yet No, but I’ll be careful …I trust you.”

A second later, Lou smiles into the artificial, flickering blue as she hears an unfamiliarly accented tirade rise to a crescendo. A little bag containing their whole future skims quietly across the water towards her.

——

“German? You learned German in prison,” Tammy is incredulous.

“Five years is a long time, I had one cellmate worth talking to,” Deb shrugs. A little too lightly. She is careful to catch Lou’s eye reassuringly across the room.

“That’s doable, right?”

“Of course,” Tammy busies herself with notes. “Journalist, or maybe board level for an international…?

“I like the sound of Helga, can I be a Helga?” Deb grins.

Tammy rolls her eyes. “I’ll get you some options.”

——

Her heels click away upstairs and Deb creeps over to the couch.

Lou is scrolling through the menu details for the gala on her iPad, managing to look bored, frustrated and mildly offended by its contents.

“Being a nutritionist is at least 85% bollocks, right?”

Deb steps forward and slides into her lap. It’s a practiced move and she can see Lou trying not to remember as much.

“Because I am not spending hours studying this shit in case some sous chef asks me about it,” she continues in exasperation from behind the iPad now pushed up almost to her nose.

It’s always been hard to break Lou’s concentration. Deb’s knees squeeze at her hips gently.

“Deb…” Lou regards her suspiciously, discarding her work.

“Ich weiß, was ich will,” Deb offers, honestly.

“What are you doing?”

She leans in to whisper. “Ich will Dich auf dem Sofa vögeln.” Her tongue catches the shell of Lou’s ear.

“Jesus,” Lou shivers violently, shoving Deb back on the couch and jumping away as though she’s been scalded, but looking entirely too happy about it.

Deb lies back, laughing in the halo of her hair and ticking an item off the list. Another list. One only she knows about.

Still ticklish.

——

No one expects tight-lipped Nine Ball to elaborate extensively on what she plans to do Afterwards, so following some enigmatic gestures, Deb finds herself next in the circle, picking at her beer label.

“I’m going to take some time. Say goodbye. Be sure about what I want.”

Lou’s sharp blue eyes find hers immediately.

“Goodbye?” Rose sounds upset.

“You dying?” interrupts Constance.

“Where you going?” Nine Ball merely curious.

“I think New York and I might consciously uncouple for a while,” Deb strives for levity, but Lou’s gaze hasn’t left hers, and she’s trying to say a thousand words with five curious women watching.

“Man, we need to get your cultural references up to date,” Constance punctures the suddenly close atmosphere.

——

Lou leaves two days after Becker is arrested.

Dawn has barely begun to stain the sky pink when she closes the door quietly and checks over her bike one last time.

The vast quietness of the early morning echoes around the yard like a cathedral; Deb’s quiet footsteps across the gravel magnified.

Lou drinks in the sight of her; pyjama clad, ruffled and for once imperfect.

The only time Deb looks less in control is when she’s asleep, limbs askew, snoring quietly.

He’s been arraigned. They’ve checked and re-checked all their workings, and paid off the rest.

Lou had thought the shadow would lift when they got this far, but it won’t. Not until she’s out of the city. New York has only ever been a place to hide.

For her. Deb thrives in it. A bird may love a fish, but where would they live?

Lou shakes her head loose of troubling thoughts as Deb comes to a halt within arm’s reach, carefully contained within her body’s borders.

“Early start,” she observes, arms crossed to ward off the dewy chill, eyes a troubled sea.

“My offer hasn’t changed,” Lou levels. Never a morning person, she’s not about to dance small talk around Deb’s choices - made or unmade.

“I know,” Deb whispers, looking down at her feet as she draws them together.

“Drive safe, won’t you?”

It’s such an uncharacteristically mundane caution, after scamming your way around the better part of the US east coast with someone for years, robbing the social event of the New York calendar, and effectively promising to sort your shit out and follow them to the ends of the continent after imprisoning your former lover, that Lou can’t help but laugh.

Deb manages a watery grin, stretching to expose her ankles to the morning air as she hugs Lou’s black-clad form.

“I’ll see you soon,” she tells the warm leather.

——

There’s a suit hanging in her wardrobe and just one more goodbye to say.

——

Lou and Deb find each other just off the Pacific Coast Highway, about two hours before lunch on a still Sunday.

A bruised red pickup trundles into the last gas station before Big Sur as Lou is filling up.

Gears crunch uncomfortably, before the engine shuts off. A woman who can do anything in the world but drive stick.

Heels strike the asphalt, and she would know that cadence anywhere.

Smiling to herself, she looks up, shaking the gas free of the nozzle before hooking it back in its cradle.

“Nice ride.”

Deb’s sunglasses shield the warm crinkle that Lou knows will have appeared at the corner of her eyes.

“What, this old thing?” she cocks a jean-clad hip against the hood. Her best southern belle accent.

“Yes ma’am. Just looking at a piece like that could make a girl awful thirsty.”

Deb’s tongue flickers across her lips.

——

Lou leans back against the low wall dividing the road from the sea, cropped white t-shirt riding up on her hips. Head tilted towards the morning sun, leathers abandoned on the seat of her bike.

She addresses the clear sky lazily, “Did you pay for those or do we need to make a quick exit?”

Deb rests two bottles on the wall beside her. Water trickles down their sides in the approaching midday heat.

“I am a reformed woman,” she touches her heart in mock offence.

Lou’s eyes follow the path of her hand, to where sunglasses now rest in the low neckline of her shirt.

“Aren’t you going to smoke in triumphant victory?” Deb teases.

“Quit.”

“Really?”

“A month meticulously organising the most complex job we’ve ever pulled, and you didn’t notice that glaring detail?”

“Well honey, I was trying to shower you with diamonds,” Deb’s hand flutters at Lou’s collarbone, where a long strand of the Toussaint had warmed against Lou’s skin. Her fingers follow the ghost of its outline, reverentially.

“I may have made a pact with a non-existent deity that if you ever showed up on my doorstep again, I’d quit.”

Lou can’t quite bear the softness in Deb’s eyes, and glances out to sea.

“Did you think I’d just picked up a mean gum habit?”

“I can think of some benefits to always being minty fresh…”

“You still give shit compliments.”

Lou spits her gum squarely into a nearby trash can without looking.

“Oh my god, have you been practicing that, James Dean?” Deb winds her arms around Lou’s neck and leans back to laugh a full, deep throated laugh that Lou hasn’t heard in a long time. It sings along her spine.

Deb steps into the v of her legs, staring at the trash for a moment, before meeting her partner’s eyes.

Lou quirks a brow.

“Baby,” she admonishes, “why kill the mystery?”

She hooks her fingers through Deb’s belt loops and pulls her closer, fingers trailing beneath the line of her shirt.

“Jeans? That’s new” she tells the soft skin behind Deb’s ear.

Deb sighs into her neck, fingers rubbing at the delicate strands of hair there.

“Take me home.”

“Where’s that?” the last, faint trace of caution still in Lou’s voice.

“Anywhere,” she draws back to meet blue eyes levelly.

Lou kisses her softly. She tastes like gum. And salt. And tomorrow.

And it’s not like being kissed by Lou, but then she’s not like Deb. Not anymore.

They are something new, burnished by fire and plunged into cold water, but they still fit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for making it through this journey with me - would love to know what you thought!
> 
> Extra gratitude to my friend S for translating, not laughing at me, and having fun chats about how Sandra Bullock has pretty flawless fluent German.
> 
> Also I apologise that many items featured in this fic were legally purchased, in extremely out of character fashion. A gross oversight. I can only promise that everything in the sequel will be thoroughly stolen. (Yes, there's already one forming in my head)
> 
> As a final thought - if anyone has solved the 10 year/5 year riddle, I would be thrilled to hear from you. The "Lou and I were going through a rough patch" flashback starts in a bingo hall and says "10 years earlier", but Deb talks about her 5 years, however many months coming up with the heist. So either she a) dated Becker for aaaaaages (DNW), b) worked with him for a few years before hooking up or c) didn't start dreaming up the heist until a few years into her sentence?
> 
> Any solutions welcome! Is there a d) you misread the flashback text? My brain couldn't handle tackling it in this fic, but the future is wide open.
> 
> P.S They definitely hella make out on this wall - I just wrote myself into a corner, tonally. My bad.


End file.
